


I'm A Big Deal On The Internet

by Poe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes is a Disaster, Bucky Barnes is tripod-kin, Dick Jokes, Humour, M/M, Panic Attack, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers has a split tongue pass it on, Tattoo Artist Steve Rogers, Tattoo Culture, Technically pre-slash because it's probably never going to be finished, That awkward moment when a tattoo artist shaves you, Youtuber Bucky Barnes, reuploaded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe
Summary: This was supposed to be the spiritual successor to Upload Your Video but then I never finished it. Anyway, a lovely person on tumblr asked if I was going to be reuploading it and I found the file and so here it is. It's not going to be finished, because I actually have a real life book I have to work on now and as cool as that is, it means Bucky is never going to get to kiss Steve and find out if it's nifty to kiss someone with a split tongue (I bet it is).Anyway, tattoo artist skinny!Steve, human disaster Youtuber Bucky Barnes, permanent WIP, dick jokes. What more could you ask for.





	I'm A Big Deal On The Internet

**Chapter One**

The distinct problem with Youtube, really, was that it was an unpredictable bastard of a beast. And as Bucky stared at his monetisation page, he briefly considered the vague possibility that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t _family friendly_.

He had watched videos about the algorithm, or The Algorithm, because apparently it needed to be capitalised and given importance, when as far as he could see it was just a crapshoot and nearly completely random as to whether you got featured or whether your face even popped up in subscription boxes any more.

Thank fuck it wasn’t his main source of income. More a nice side earner that had paid for more than a few tattoos and a couple of trips to see his family. See, totally family friendly. You couldn’t get more family friendly than that.

Probably.

I mean, he wasn’t uploading pirated Peppa Pig episodes or anything, but _still_.

What he actually did was a strange mix of vlogs, skits and, because the future is beautiful and magical, somehow producing entire songs with nothing more than a very expensive microphone and a synth and a fuck of a lot of fiddling around with software.

Distinct problem: you need two arms to do cute ukulele covers.

So that was out. Luckily synths were a lot more forgiving.

People seemed to like him. Fuck, he even had _merch_. And a distributor for his music. Hark at him and the many ideas he had above his station.

Jack of all trades, etc, etc.

It was pretty cushy, really, and he didn’t really understand why people complained so much about how much work it was. It was fun, and he was constantly learning, in that slightly embarrassing way where you look back six months ago and cringe, but still. Progress was being made. Always moving forward, never looking back.

Looking back, that shit’ll kill ya.

Which is why his degree in American History was in a folder in a drawer somewhere and he worked in a cosy, if slightly mouldy book shop a couple of blocks from his apartment. And before you say it, he’s heard every Bernard Black joke you can make. He’s not actively chugging back wine straight from the bottle whilst at work, so he has that going for him.

Which is good.

People are just, sort of terrible.

Not to be cynical.

That was an objective fact.

Many man hours of research had taken place, all from his position slumped behind the counter of Black Widow Books, _not_ scowling, that was just his face, okay?

He had resting murder face, which scared the shit out of him when he went to the hairdressers and was forced to look at himself in the mirror for up to an hour.

So he stopped going to the hairdressers. He freaked himself out a little.

The long hair sort of suited the resting murder face, if anything. And the people who watched his videos seemed to like it.

So, yeah, cool.

But damn and blast and all the rest of it with the Adpocalypse, because he really wanted a new tattoo and his revenue was down thirty per cent for the month and he’d had plans. Plans, dammit.

See, he had a swanky camera with a good battery these days, which didn’t freak out and fail to buffer videos over ten minutes and could and would record for hours, which was actually awesome for time lapse videos and there were few things he loved more than making things go super speedy.

And nothing looks cooler in super speedy mode than getting a tattoo.

Two birds, one stone, and a write off for his taxes.

He wasn’t quite sure how business expenses worked, but apparently it counted. Which was _awesome_.

He’d been following a DC artist for a while now, a guy everyone on Instagram seemed to refer to merely as _Captain_ , and though Bucky had never met a captain before and he didn’t imagine they’d ever look anything like this guy.

In the few photos the good Captain had posted of himself or been tagged in, he looked every inch the punk-emo-hipster mash-up Bucky would inevitably find himself going home with after a night propping up the bar. Sunshine blond hair, stretched ears, a split tongue (Bucky had watched the video of Captain doing tongue tricks rather more times than it would be fair to make him admit), intricate blackwork floral designs up both forearms, and the short stature that promised a fiery temper.

So, when it turned out Captain was up and moving to Brooklyn ( _back_ to Brooklyn, apparently) and opening a shop a block away from Bucky, Bucky had jumped into his inbox with five half formed ideas and a request to film the whole experience. And then he’d waited.

Problem: the internet makes instant gratification possible, and when it doesn’t happen, shit sucks.

Eventually, Captain had gotten back to him and somehow managed to cobble together a design from Bucky’s vague rambling email, and had even tentatively agreed to be filmed, as long as it didn’t interfere with the tattooing process.

Bucky had Paypal’d him the (hefty) deposit within seconds.

So now Bucky had to scrounge up the rest of the cash for the first of six six hour sessions, as well as a tip, because he was a gentleman (sometimes). Which was fine, but still. Fuckin’ Youtube algorithm fucking with his revenue.

The design _was_ gorgeous though, he had to give Captain that – Bucky was perhaps less careful about his tattoos than you’d expect being one limb down, but if anything, the whole oops-got-his-arm-amputated experience had taught Bucky precisely one thing: everything is transitory. His body was on loan, and at any point another extremity could fall off or something awful, so #yolo and all that shit because he wanted sometimes he just wanted a tattoo and dammit he didn’t need to justify it to anybody.

But that being said, as he had acknowledged, Captain’s design was beautiful, in his signature blackwork etching style, he’d pulled together Bucky’s ramblings about the apocalypse and nuclear war and how he was more than a little afraid of getting Ebola (admittedly, drink had been taken when he’d written the email) and also how he quite liked cowboys but he wasn’t sure if that was relevant, and Captain had somehow smushed that together in his head and produced a four horsemen of the apocalypse piece which would take about thirty hours but take up Bucky’s entire back. The horses were beautiful but fierce, and the horsemen each bore their label with a twist Bucky couldn’t have come up with in a million years. The final piece looked like it could have been pulled out of an 18th century textbook, but with modern touches that just made it pop. Bucky had zoomed in and out of the high-res scan more times than he could count, noticing new details every time. Which is sort of what you want from a tattoo, really.

(He had emailed Captain to check there were no hidden dicks in there though, because you gotta check these things.)

(Cap had assured him there were no hidden dicks, unless Bucky wanted hidden dicks.)

(Bucky briefly considered it.)

(Bucky, because he is _family friendly_ , dammit, turned down the offer of hidden dicks. With a heavy heart.)

In conclusion, Bucky was going to get a tattoo he couldn’t really afford because of an algorithm fucking with his revenue, but at least it would make a good video because time lapse is freaking awesome.

(Also he wanted to see if Captain was as cute in real life as he looked in his pictures, and if so, well, God loves a trier.)

(Bucky was going to try sleep with him, is what I’m saying here. Bucky has not considered the consequences of sleeping with a tattoo artist.)

(Bucky, sometimes incredibly intelligent – fuck, he’d been to college and got a degree. Also, kinda really freaking dumb sometimes. You win some, you lose some. Like arms, really.)

(Ha.)

 

**Chapter Two**

Bucky was, is, whatever tense we’re going for here, a wimp. A wuss. A complete cry baby in the face of adversity. Which made the whole one arm thing look entirely incongruous but who the fuck signs up to lose an arm? He didn’t do that shit on purpose. If someone had asked him, _hey, do you want your arm to be crushed in a multi-car pile-up_ , he’d have probably said no.

Whilst screaming and running away.

So, with the best will in the world, Bucky is not best suited to getting tattoos. He gets nervous and sweaty and forgets to shave the area beforehand which leads to the excruciatingly awkward moment when the tattoo artist has to shave him whilst Bucky refuses to make eye contact (the urge to whisper ‘ _what are we_?’ is too damn strong). Anyway. Bucky is terrible at getting tattoos.

A fact he forgets the second the tattoo is finished and wrapped up and he’s paying.

A fact he really, really forgets every time he books his next one.

A fact he is harshly reminded of the night before getting a new tattoo.

Especially on his back.

What the actual fuck was he thinking.

Seriously.

Somebody, help him out here.

He asks Twitter.

Twitter is distinctly unhelpful.

Which is _rude_.

So we find him now, morning of, trying to eat whilst simultaneously trying not to vomit (a handy skill to have, to be sure) because he really does not want to pass out whilst getting a tattoo, though on second thought, that might be a good idea because he’ll be on his front anyway so maybe Cap wouldn’t even notice and Bucky would wake up and it’d all be over and why oh why the fucking fuck did he decide to do this he really needs to start thinking with his head.

(His _head_ head. Not his – look, you know what I mean. This sidenote exists purely to get a cheap laugh. I hope you’re happy. This is what we’re reduced to. Dick jokes. Honestly.)

He can’t exactly shave his back because he is not a freaking contortionist and god, hopefully his back isn’t hairy enough to warrant shaving anyway, because can you imagine? Life couldn’t be that cruel. He’d have to go get waxed or something. No. Just no.

Choice: stand in front of the mirror all day trying to check if his back is hairy, or pack up his camera equipment and get the fuck to Nomad Tattoos and man the fuck up.

(He’d woman the fuck up but he’d left his best pair of heels at Natasha’s last weekend. He contains multitudes. One of those multitudes likes the way his calves look in heels. So sue him.)

(Not that he believes clothing is gendered. That’s fucking dumb. But, okay, he’s not really thinking straight right now.)

(Ha, thinking straight. That’d be a turn up for the books.)

Genuinely though, he really needs to stop panicking. It’s very uncouth. Probably. He’s not quite sure.

Oh god.

Tripod, check. Camera, quite an important one that, check. Backup battery, check. Backup backup battery, check. Bottle of water, check. Cold hard cash in the form of a nice roll of fifties (that he didn’t throw up in the air and dance in a couple of days ago after getting home from getting it out of the ATM whilst pretending to be famous and rich because that would be pathetic and he’s above that, _really_ ), check. Air of foreboding and _general oh-no-everything’s-awful_ feeling, big ol’ check.

He lugs everything into a bag and then lugs that onto his back, thumbing his phone awake and zooming in on the scan of his tattoo design a couple more times. Just to be sure. Because, ya know, you gotta be sure.

(He’ll tell you about his poor tattoo choices some time, I imagine it’ll come up in conversation.)

Anyway. Anyway, okay. Good. Getting a tattoo. Going to, definitely going to leave the apartment any moment now.

Yep.

Finally he gets out of the front door and it swings shut behind him and definitely doesn’t sound like a coffin being closed, because that would be a terrible simile and he’s not marching to his death, he’s getting a tattoo, he’s gotten tattoos before and always survived.

(He’s good at surviving. He’ll tell you about it never. Repress that shit.)

He puts one foot in front of the other. Forward motion is made. He does it again. This, he believes, is called walking, and is generally considered a form of locomotion suitable for getting from A to B.

The ground refuses to swallow him whole.

There is never a sinkhole when you want one.

Someone should look into that.

So he does the walking thing, even though he’s not quite sure if they’re his legs or whether someone has sewn rubber ones on during the night (unlikely, but with each step closer to the tattoo studio, seemingly somehow more likely).

He stands outside the tattoo studio for a long minute, but not too long, because he doesn’t want to appear creepy.

Through the glass, he spots Cap perched at a drawing station, bent over a sketchbook. He’s tiny. Bucky could pick him up and throw him the length of a football field. Or, like, hypothetically, Bucky could pick him up and have him wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist as Bucky kisses ridiculously red lips and thanks all the stars in the sky for this opportunity. Hypothetically.

Thus motivated, because you gotta speculate to accumulate (apparently), Bucky pushes the shop door open.

And Captain looks up.

And Bucky thinks to himself, _well fuck_.

And then Captain looks Bucky up and down, and fucking bites his lip knowingly and smirks.

And Bucky thinks to himself, _this is it, this is how I die_.

And then Captain swings himself off his stool, all loose hips and skinny limbs.

And Bucky thinks to himself, _you know what I am completely okay with this as a cause of death_.

And then Captain says, with a voice that is too deep for his body,

“You must be Bucky.”

And Bucky thinks to himself, _God, if you’re up there, we’ll call it even on the missing arm thing if I can just hold his hand no funny business I’m cool just let me have that_.

Because apparently, Bucky Barnes has just come down with a severe case of infatuation.

There is no known cure.

  

 

**Chapter Three**

Distinct problem: Bucky has not replied. He’s just sort of stood there, staring. Which is not his most attractive look. Thankfully, Cap fills the awkward silence by gesturing to Bucky’s camera bag.

“That looks heavy, you want to put that down?”

And because Bucky is an idiot whose brain is currently rebooting, he immediately drops it on the floor.

Which is a bit terrible.

So he curses.

He’s really good at cursing.

Inventive, too.

After he’s finished telling the world, himself and the camera exactly what he’s going to do to it in graphic detail, and where exactly it should have stuff shoved and why and for how long, and after he’s checked his precious (read: fucking expensive) camera is okay (which it is, which is fucking lucky because he really didn’t want to cry this early on in the day, there are standards to maintain), he looks up from where he’s squatting to see Cap biting his lip again as though he’s trying not to laugh.

Laughter is good, right? You gotta be able to make a man laugh, that’s like… the way to a guy’s heart. That or food. Or a really sharp knife. Depends who you ask, really. But Bucky’s pretty sure laughter is up there.

“Language,” Cap says and smiles, and Bucky drops his backup backup battery on his foot.

(On his own foot, I should just clear that up. Cap is still standing a few feet away. But close enough that Bucky can see how fucking long his eyelashes are and what the fuck is that about Bucky isn’t an eyelash fetishist in the slightest but apparently his hindbrain is wide awake and wants to make beautiful long-eyelashed babies and that’s probably not even possible. He doesn’t know Cap well enough to rule that out as a possibility entirely, but it’s not something you bring up on the first date. Fuck, this isn’t a date. This is – what is this again? A tattoo session. Which he is paying for.

He is paying for Cap’s company right now and completely blowing it.

Anyway.)

Probability: Cap isn’t offended by his swearing. Which is, ya know, cool.

Polite gesture: apologise anyway.

“Sorry, I – fuck.”

Polite gesture: failed.

“You nervous?” Cap asks and Bucky’s eyes widen because _who told him how did he guess this is so unfair._

“No?” Bucky tries, his voice coming out an octave too high. Which he didn’t know he could do. So, learning new things.

“It’s cool, let me get you some water,” Cap says, and heads over to one of those water coolers you see in waiting rooms but never see anyone actually use. “I’m Steve, by the way,” Cap calls over his shoulder as he fiddles with the tap and a plastic cup.

_Steve. Steeeeeve. Steven? Stevie. Stevie-baby. Steve. Captain Steve. Steve Barnes. Steeeeeeeeve._

Bucky shakes his head, and pulls his tripod out of the bag.

(He relates to this tripod. As a three-limbed thing. He appreciates the way it is slightly useless and the spirit levels inform him it is never entirely level, and that sometimes it’ll flop forward under the weight of a particularly heavy zoom lens and ruin a shot. He appreciates its incompetency and in no way begrudges it. Because watching him set up said tripod with one arm and a knee for leverage, well, he’s not radiating competency himself. He is a tripod. Except, like, nobody ever screws a camera to his head and makes his legs all long and spindly or short and stubby depending on what shot they wanted. If they did, he’d object. But – there’s a kinship there. Oh god. Is he tripod-kin? Is that a thing? Fuck, he bets that’s a thing. Of all the creations in… creation, his true form is a slightly wonky tripod. Well, at least he isn’t a fucking wolf. Points for originality.)

Tripod set up, he checks the SD card is in the camera and screws the camera to the tripod (righty-tighty, lefty-loosey) and then screws his favourite lens to the camera (it makes the background go all out of focus whilst making the foreground super sharp and he’s not entirely sure how it works but it does and it’s great for filming day trips out because it makes everything look slightly magical and even a little bit professional).

Steve ( _light of my life, fire of my loins_ , Bucky’s brain unhelpfully supplies) trots over with the cup of water and Bucky takes it eagerly, and their fingers actually brush a little bit and erm, yeah, it’s good. Bucky gulps down the water too fast but at least it’s cold and a bit of minor choking distracts him from his nerves. He coughs to try subtly cover up the fact he’s dying, and Steve quirks an eyebrow before peering at his camera set up.

“So, you’re going to film the whole thing?” Steve asks and Bucky nods. Steve looks a little sheepish.

“Erm,” he says.

“It’s okay if you don’t want me to!” Bucky squeaks hurriedly.

“No, it’s cool, it’s just my ma doesn’t know I’m a tattoo artist.”

Bucky stares.

“Steve, you have a face tattoo. How can she not know.”

Okay, apparently he’s going for blunt today. But at least he’s speaking like a human now. And he didn’t even swear. Five points to Slytherin.

“Oh! I use that Kat Von D stuff, it’s actually really good because I’m super pale and yeah, she’s not doing so well, my ma, not Kat Von D, I don’t know how she’s doing, well, I’d imagine, she has a makeup line and everything. _I_ don’t have a makeup line.” The last sentence is said slightly bitterly.

“Okay,” Bucky says. Steve looks at him. Bucky looks back. Steve licks his lips a little nervously and two tongues poke out.

“Steve you have a split tongue how on earth hasn’t she noticed.”

“Nobody really notices unless they’re looking for it. Normally people with oral fixations.”

Oh, check mate to Steve. Check and mate.

Bucky feels personally attacked.

“You have stretched ears,” Bucky points out, because he’s feeling childish.

“I’ve had them for years,” Steve pouts.

“Before they were cool?” Bucky fishes.

“I should remind you that I am going to be tattooing your back for six hours. You won’t be able to see your back. You know how detailed I can make a tattoo of a penis look in six hours? Fuckin’ detailed is how detailed. There’ll be no hiding this dick,” Steve threatens, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Bucky says, and his mouth curls up like a particularly satisfied cat.

“Oh no, only the cute ones,” Steve parries back.

“You callin’ me cute?” Bucky asks, and sends up a silent prayer of thanks to a pantheon of gods he doesn’t believe in. Okay, this is totally his reward for the losing-an-arm thing. Cool beans.

“I am about to ask you to take your shirt off, so, there’s a real possibility.”

“Erm,” Bucky’s brain breaks a little.

“It’s very hard to tattoo through fabric, but then, I’ve never really tried,” Steve says and smiles sweetly as though he’s an innocent fucking angel.

 _What are we_ , Bucky’s brain whispers, but nevertheless, he tugs his shirt over his head.

 

 

**Chapter Four**

With the camera set up and focusing on Bucky’s back, he stands, nips out and self-conscious.

There is something uniquely awkward about getting a tattoo stencil put on you, especially a big one. You must remain completely still, stand normally but _no slouching_ , and for god’s sake if you’re ticklish don’t squirm.

Basically, you forget entirely how you hold yourself naturally and the tattoo artist has to manoeuvre you into something resembling a human being again.

Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s waist straightening him out.

(Ha.)

(Safe to say, it’s not working.)

(Bucky cracks himself up.)

Bucky is extremely ticklish and as a result is biting his bottom lip and trying desperately not to fidget. Steve runs his hands up Bucky’s ribs with a sceptical eye, before nodding.

“Yeah, if you can hold it there,” he says.

“People normally buy me a drink first,” Bucky mutters.

“If you’re gonna make this weird, then I can make it weirder,” Steve warns.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. He really, really likes Steve.

And maybe, a little bit, Steve likes him.

Which’d be nifty.

Steve is still being wholly professional though, and snaps on black gloves before reaching for the alcohol solution.

“I’m going to rub this on your back now, are you going to make it weird?” Steve asks, and Bucky huffs.

“Okay then,” Steve shrugs, and moves to rub the solution onto Bucky’s skin. Bucky resolutely doesn’t flinch at the cold sting of it, nor at the circular motions of Steve’s gloved hands on him.

When Bucky is suitably moist, Steve reaches back for the stencil.

“Okay, I wanna one shot this, but I also want it to be perfect, so I’m going to need you to not breathe,” Steve says from behind Bucky. Bucky nods. He must have shifted his weight a little because Steve’s hand is on his ribs again, correcting him.

Bucky takes a deep breath in.

And Steve gently presses the stencil to his skin, before pushing harder, making sure it transfers completely. It’s like getting the world’s weirdest massage as Steve uses the palm of his hand to let the stencil soak onto Bucky’s back. And then, he peels the stencil away.

(Bucky loves watching this part on Instagram. There’s something about a fresh stencil on skin which is very visually appealing. He can’t wait to watch the footage back later.)

Steve makes a satisfied noise and Bucky wants to move but knows he probably shouldn’t. Steve places the stencil on the bench beside them and reaches for a Sharpie to clean up a couple of lines.

It’s nice, being drawn on, and Bucky practically melts at the sensation, but it’s over all too soon and Steve is taking a few steps back, and Bucky looks over his shoulder to see Steve cocking his head back and forth, eyebrows scrunched up, checking everything is where it should be.

“You wanna take a look?” Steve asks and Bucky can’t get over to the mirror fast enough.

The design is – big. That’s one word for it. Bucky’s not a small guy, and it takes up the entirety of his back. He has immediate regrets, but damn, it looks good already. Go big or go home, right?

“Is it okay?” Steve asks, and for the first time he sounds uncertain. Bucky kinda wants to shake him and assure him that this is fucking amazing and beautiful and perfect and how the fuck did Steve come up with it when Bucky had sent him such an eclectic list of ideas?

It looks like it was made for Bucky’s back. Which, it kinda was, so that makes sense, but still. It looks like he should have been born with it. Like the world’s most grandiose birth mark.

It’s cool, basically.

“I like it,” Bucky says instead. “I mean, yeah, fuck yeah I like it.”

Steve nods.

“You need to move your camera, right?” Steve asks and Bucky nods. “Okay, just, don’t smudge the stencil or I will literally have to end you right there and then because that, my friend, is a fluke and nothing ever goes on the first time like that. Fuck I’m glad you got that on film.”

Bucky makes quick work of moving his equipment so it focuses on the tattoo bench he’ll be laying on.

He checks the battery is still on full, stretches because he knows he won’t get another chance for a while, and then presses the record button.

With a nod from Steve, he climbs onto the tattoo bench and lowers his head to rest on his right arm. Steve checks his own equipment, before buzzing the machine a couple of times to get the right tone, and then he smears the first line of Vaseline on Bucky’s skin. Tattoo machine primed and ready, hovering over Bucky’s naked back, he pauses.

“You ready?” Steve asks.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Bucky replies, and tries to keep the nerves out of his voice.

He’s really not into pain.

But he’ll be damned if he’s going to get up and walk out now.

All of his life choices suck, he decides.

He should have stuck with the plan and became a teacher.

But that would have involved working with _youths_.

Eww.  

And then the needle hits skin and it’s definitely too late to call Steve’s bluff.

 

  

 

**Chapter Five**

The first drag of the needle across his skin is short, but firm. Steve isn’t some heavy handed brute, which is a relief, at least.

“That okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods.

Steve takes his nod as leave to continue, and more lines follow in quick succession, at the base of his spine, and Bucky tries to figure out exactly what shapes they’re making from the mixed up nerve responses he’s getting.

“Are you recording sound?” Steve asks after a while.

“Yeah, but I’m gonna time lapse this and put background music on, so if you wanna say something feel free. Or put music on. Whatever,” Bucky replies. It is weird that Steve is working in silence, normally tattoo studios seem to play the mandatory shouty angry music which Bucky gets the point of, but doesn’t really enjoy.

“I’m okay, actually, I sort of zone out. If you need to listen to something though, I know it helps?”

“I’d rather just talk, if you’re okay with that?” Bucky says, and tenses a little as a line bumps across his spine.

“Sure, but if I don’t reply, don’t take it personal,” Steve says, and reaches for some kitchen roll to wipe away some stray ink. Bucky nuzzles deeper into the crook of his arm and closes his eyes.

“So, how come your ma doesn’t know you tattoo?” He asks, hoping it isn’t too personal a question. I mean, he’s talking to his future husband here, so they’ve got to get personal at some point, but still. Steve doesn’t know that yet.

“Eh,” Steve says, and Bucky can picture him shrugging, “it’s sorta complicated. She wanted me to go to art school, but I just couldn’t afford it. Saw a few tattoo programmes on television, Ink Master and shit like that, and thought, hey, I could do that. Put together a portfolio, approached about a dozen shops, and finally got an apprenticeship. It ain’t – it ain’t like on television. Nothing so glamorous. Didn’t get paid for the first year. Long hours. Lots of drawing. And you gotta learn so much – hygiene, how to deal with people, how to figure out what someone actually wants, how to tell someone you’re not going to copy a photograph off the internet they’ve got on their phone, ya know? Took a long time to get to the point where I was getting paid and doing designs I actually wanted to do. Seemed pretty dumb in hindsight, but it meant I could stay close to home and still be an artist, and I had enough drawings to show my ma that I was working, even if my art was kinda both more permanent and less permanent than what you see in museums.”

“She doesn’t like tattoos?” Bucky asks.

“She worries, ya know? That I’ll never get a _real_ job with ‘em. That I’ve ruined my body. She hates my ears, thinks I look like an elephant. But she means well – she really does. She says it all with love. Kinda hard for her, for us both, only had each other growing up, so I guess seeing me not being a little kid any more is tricky for her. Seeing me with a face tattoo would probably not be so great.”

“And the split tongue,” Bucky points out.

“That too. But I dunno, I was sick a lot as a child, nearly died a couple of times. Puts things into perspective. I guess you’d understand that. You sorta think – fuck it – you know? I could die at any moment, so I’m gonna die lookin’ how I want to look and fuck what anybody else has to say about it. ‘cept my ma of course, but ya know what I mean.”

“I get it,” Bucky mumbles.

“It’s cool, ya know, too, right? To see what your body is capable of? To push the limits a little? I mean when I got my tongue split, I thought, oh god, right, this is the worst pain I’ve ever been in. And it was and it wasn’t. The stitches fuckin’ sucked, no word of a lie, and I lived on ice cream for a week, and my tongue was just – huge. I drooled on everything. _Everything_. I was gross. But the second the stitches were out? And I could move the two halves separately? You know your tongue is actually two separate muscles right? I’d never really realised what that meant until I started learning to do tricks.”

“I saw that on Instagram,” Bucky admits.

“You follow me on Instagram?” Steve asks, sounding surprised.

“Well yeah, how else do you think people find you?” Bucky says, glad to have avoided confessing to rewatching the tongue video _a lot_.

“Well, so far they haven’t. Beginning to think moving here from DC was a bad idea. But it was, it was a bad environment, and my ma could see I wasn’t happy and I know it’s really fuckin’ selfish to leave her, but she pretty much insisted I go or she’d up and die on me. Shit, that sounds awful. She’s like that though, she would, outta spite. So I had to come back here, and make a go of it on my own.”

“You know I’m kinda a big deal on the internet,” Bucky says casually, “people’ll see this video and come flocking to the shop. Promise.”

“Nah, don’t promise shit like that, I don’t need a helping hand or nothing. I’ve got a couple of artists who’re interested in taking seats here, didn’t want to take anyone on ‘til I had the ground under my feet, and even then didn’t want to take anyone on who was like, I mean, I hate to say it, but there are some big egos in this business. And a lot of people only in it for the money. Which is fine, but when you’re working on something and you’ve quoted for an hour and time runs over, you can see which artists will start to cut corners and which ones will just swallow the difference, ya know? And the latter were the guys I wanted on my team.”

“That’s really cool. You know I’m gonna have to interview you for my channel now.”

“Oh god, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’m not good in front of a camera,” Steve says, kinda bashful.

Bucky can imagine Steve blushing, and ain’t that a thing?

“Seems to me you’re doing just fine.”

“Well what kinda artist would I be if I suddenly yelled fuck and fled the scene?” Steve asks and Bucky barks out a laugh. Steve presses a hand firmly to Bucky’s back to hold him still. “Careful there pal, don’t want a wonky line.”

Bucky keeps very still, listening to the buzz of the machine and trying to focus on his breathing rather than the pain inching its way up his back. Steve works fast, which is a blessing, but it’s impossible to tell how much he’s actually done, and not for the first time, Bucky wishes tattoo artists had progress bars like when you’re reading a Kindle, so he could check what per cent was done.

So for a while Bucky lets Steve get on with his job, clenching and unclenching his jaw as the pain gets a little too raw and close to the bone.

There’s definitely no going back now, so he might as well settle into the ride.

 

 

 

**Chapter Six**

You know how sometimes your arm will fall asleep and just become a dead weight and it’s actually kinda nifty because you can poke it and feel nothing and lift it up and watch it just drop to your side?

Shit sucks when it’s the only arm you have.

About three hours in, Bucky hears Steve put the machine down with a heavy metal clunk and stand and pop seemingly every joint in his body, and Bucky realises that the arm he’s been resting his head on is dead to the world.

Steve asks him if he wants to get up and stretch his legs.

Bucky’s noodle arm means he couldn’t lift himself up if he wanted to.

What’s more, is, and he’s totally punk rock, okay, and it’s totally punk rock to cry – so fuck you, but he’s trying really hard not to cry right now, biting his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes tight shut because something you might not realise, because it’s a novelty to have your arm fall asleep when you have two arms, is that when you only have one arm, not only is there a crushing sense of helplessness, but also the _fear_ , the voice in your head that asks over and over again _what if it never comes back_?

Bucky hunches his shoulders and tries not to panic.

After a long moment, he feels Steve’s hand on his right shoulder, a steady weight and an anchoring point.

“You doin’ okay?” Steve asks and Bucky tries not to let out a sob. He gets it together enough to reply.

“I can’t get up.”

“You feel dizzy?” Steve asks, a note of concern in his voice. Bucky shakes his head.

“My arm’s fallen asleep. It’s dumb, but – it’s kinda the only one I got. I can’t get up. I need – I’m stuck. Fuck.”

Steve is rubbing small circles on Bucky’s shoulder now and Bucky lets the warmth seep into his bones. Steve’s taken his gloves off and so it’s skin to skin, and it feels so nice and it’s been so long since Bucky’s hand this, and yeah, it’s kinda a weird situation, but it’s _helping_.

“Is it okay if I help you up?” Steve asks, and it sounds like he’s choosing every word with care.

Bucky nods.

“Just – turn the camera off first, could you? It’s the red button on the back.”

Steve moves over to the camera, and after a few seconds, there’s the familiar sound of the recording snapping off. Steve moves to stand beside Bucky, and they both seem to take a minute to figure out how this is going to work, because Bucky is much bigger than Steve.

“This isn’t going to be elegant, you okay with that?” Steve finally concludes, and Bucky nods.

“I just need to sit up,” he says. Steve nods, and approaches Bucky. He gets an arm under Bucky’s right armpit and uses the leverage to hoist Bucky upwards, wrapping most of his torso around Bucky in the process. It’s messy and awkward and Bucky feels every inch of his disability, but the next moment he’s sitting upright and his legs are dangling towards the floor and his right arm is limp and resting on his thigh. He wishes he could poke it and try find some sensation there, but he can’t. And asking Steve would be – weird.

“I told you I’d make it weird,” Steve says, snapping Bucky out of it. Bucky can’t help but smile a little at that.

“I didn’t realise you’d be manhandling me so soon. You think I’m easy, Cap?” He replies, and tries to make his voice light and breezy, but his head is still repeating the same mantra, _what if it never comes back, what if it never comes back_.

He looks down at his arm and tries to flex his fingers. Nothing.

Fuck.

Fucking fuckity fucking motherfuckling fuck.

Steve, apparently certified mind reader, steps a little closer.

“Hey, you look really freaked out,” he says, and Bucky can’t help but nod his agreement.

Assessment: accurate.

“Can you feel it at all?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head.

Steve reaches out his hand and strokes down from the top of Bucky’s shoulder (small tingle) to his bicep (nothing). Bucky shakes his head.

“Gonna make it weird, you okay with that?” Steve asks again, and quite frankly Bucky will take anything at this stage, because his breathing is starting to get erratic and his mind is going places he shut off years ago. Hospitals and waking up and wondering why he can’t feel anything and the surgeon coming in and his mom crying and _physio physio physio_ and prosthetics that all looked like torture instruments and months of not looking in the mirror with his shirt off. Bucky nods and doesn’t look at Steve at all.

Steve kneels, and takes Bucky’s hand in his. Steve’s hands are big, his fingers long and fine. There’s a smudge of black ink on the tip of his ring finger. His knuckles don’t spell out words, but rather each depicts a different symbol, slightly fuzzy from age. The artwork on his hand itself is blackwork, thick and thin lines depicting a flower, Bucky can’t identify it by sight, but he recognises it. It takes up Steve’s entire hand and when Steve’s hand tightens around Bucky’s fingers, Bucky can make out the tendons working underneath the ink.

“Can you feel that?” Steve asks again, and Bucky shakes his head, but he’s not so sure this time, because there’s a definite _something_ to his hand now, and it might just be because he’s looking at Steve’s fingers wrapped around his, or it might be because his arm isn’t dead, that it’s back, that he’s okay, that it’s all going to be okay.

Steve rubs small circles onto Bucky’s palm with his thumb, and dulled nerves start to pick up the movement of it, difficult to pinpoint and fuzzy but definitely there. Bucky tries to ignore the fact that his cheeks are wet and focuses on Steve’s thumb making those small circles, gradually bringing him back to life.

“You’re okay,” Steve says, and Bucky believes it.

They sit there for a long time, Steve massaging Bucky’s hand back to life, the feeling spreading back up all the way through to his shoulder, and Steve kneeling there in a position that must be killing his knees, but he never once complains.

Bucky clenches his fingers and his hand responds. Sharp electricity snaps up his arm, but it quickly fizzles out. Steve squeezes his hand once more before letting it rest on Bucky’s thigh once more.

“You want some water?” Steve says, snapping back to professional. “And I can get you some tissue.”

Bucky stares at his hand, stretching out his fingers, and then raises it in front of his face. He hates that something that would have once been novel and exciting, _oh, my arm’s dead, that’s weird!_ has become something that brings him to the brink of a panic attack.

He’s glad it’s not on film.

Steve comes back with a half full cup of water and a wad of tissue. Bucky takes the tissue first, wiping his face where he’d been crying. He then gulps down the water gratefully. It makes him feel fractionally more human.

Steve bustles around whilst Bucky sits there regrouping. It’s nice, that Steve knows when to step in and when to step back. Someone else might have freaked out, and that would have led to Bucky’s anxiety amping the fuck up and he’s been to the emergency room for less.

After twenty minutes, Steve asks him if he needs the bathroom. Bucky nods and swings off of the bench, grateful that Steve is just treating him like a normal person. When he comes back, Steve has fresh gloves on and has refilled his ink pots, testing his machine with the foot pedal.

“Ready for round two?” He asks, and Bucky checks the camera for focus, clicks the record button and gets back up onto the bench, clenches his jaw, and closes his eyes, wincing slightly as the needle once again hits skin.

  

 

 

**Chapter Seven**

Bucky is making bargains with every god of every pantheon when Steve lets out a satisfied noise and sets his machine down heavily on the metal workbench beside him. Next comes the soothing wash of liquid that cleans off the smeared ink and _god that shit feels good_. If Bucky could purr, he would. Steve finishes wiping him down and Bucky can hear him rustling around, throwing things away in the biohazard bins behind him. Bucky takes a moment to assess his head, not feeling too dizzy, back is very fucking sore but tolerable, and then Steve asks him if he’d like to go check his new tattoo out.

Like – yes?

He hops off the bench with a level of physical exertion he hasn’t displayed since he met that ballet dancer a couple of years ago (very fucking flexible, a good time was had by all, five stars) and skips over to the full length mirror. Steve follows him, grabbing a smaller hand mirror, which he holds up so Bucky doesn’t have to contort himself to see.

Well.

It’s big.

He definitely has a back piece now.

It’s only the linework, but already he can see how it’s going to look when it’s done. Each horseman has their own character, their own presence, and the piece fits his body like it was always meant to be there. It’s fucking gorgeous.

He stares for a long time. He wants to touch but knows he can’t. Steve lets him take his time. His muscles ache from laying on the bench for so long and he rolls his shoulders to try release some of the built up tension. His skin pulls and the fresh tattoo flares with pain. Okay then, note to self, don’t fucking move.

“Let’s get you wrapped up, okay?” Steve says. “And then we can go over aftercare.”

Bucky toddles back over to stand beside the bench, and Steve slathers his back with Vaseline (Bucky makes no comment, because he is not a creep, but just sayin’, Steve can slather him with Vaseline any day of the week) and then wraps him in a frankly alarming amount of cling film (which is significantly less enjoyable than the Vaseline and makes him crinkle when he moves). Steve talks the whole time about keeping out of the sun and how to use the lotion he’s giving Bucky. And then he drops the bombshell.

“You’re going to need to keep the cling film on for tonight, but tomorrow morning you’re going to have to wash it off, and it’ll be lymph-y and gross and you must make sure not to let the water hit it directly, but it’s still really going to fucking suck. Heavy blackwork is not your friend.”

Why does Bucky get tattoos. Why.

He tugs his t-shirt back on with a little difficulty, the cling film restricting his movement somewhat, and checks his camera whilst Steve cleans up. There are two large, three hour long video files just waiting for him to timelapse the shit out of them. Neat.

When Steve’s done, they make their way over to the counter and Steve goes a bit shy and tries to turn down Bucky’s tip (heh) but Bucky is insistent. The work is good – better than good, and Steve deserves every penny.

And anyway, Bucky has an idea.

Okay, Bucky has two ideas, but for idea two to be a go, idea one has to sail successfully, so.

Idea one: pitch an interview with Steve for his Youtube channel.

Idea two: outside of a professional setting, ask Steve out to dinner, or, if Steve is amiable, skip dinner and go for the rampant sex.

Thing is, catching Steve’s blue eyes, he doesn’t just want to sleep with him. He wants to – fuck, dammit, he’s gone and caught feelings, hasn’t he?

Feelings are the worst.

The Worst™.

He mentally berates himself for the whole feelings thing, whilst at the same time trying to remain impassive on the outside.

“So, it would be really cool if I could interview you for my channel. And it might drum up some business for you?” He asks, casual as you like.

Steve bites his bottom lip and his jaw tics a little, and Bucky wonders if maybe Steve is a lot more shy than he lets on. But Steve seems to shake himself, because the next moment he’s nodding.

“That sounds really interesting, where would you like to do it? We could do it at the shop if you like? Would that be easier?”

Bucky thinks for a moment.

Opportunity to get Steve alone in his apartment: tempting.

Video with all the tattoo paraphernalia and art in the background, and Steve comfortable in his natural environment: aesthetically pleasing and also easier for Steve.

Fucking feelings, man.

Bucky isn’t at the stage yet where he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to Steve ever, but, well, he’s getting there. He’d still bang him like a barn door, but he’d snuggle afterwards.

Wow.

Damn short ass punk guys with their split tongues and face tattoos and cute smiles and blue, blue, ridiculously blue eyes.

Steve licks his lips and those two tips of his tongue flick out.

Bucky wonders how it feels to kiss someone with a split tongue. Nifty, probably.

“You wanna pack up your camera?” Steve asks, and Bucky realises he’s just been standing there staring at Steve’s lips. Not that Steve seems to mind, mind.

“Yeah, I should probably do that,” Bucky says. He breaks his setup down quickly, packing everything away carefully in his shoulder bag. He’s aware of Steve’s eyes on him the whole time, though Steve seems to be pretending to check his appointments book.

 _I see you Steve, I see you_ , Bucky thinks to himself, and sticks his ass out a little more than necessary as he bends to lift his bag.

“So,” Steve says, when Bucky returns to the counter, bag hefted up on his shoulder. He’s fiddling with a business card. “Here’s my card, for when you want to arrange the interview and your next appointment. And – erm, there’s the shop number, but in case you can’t reach me, and in case you can’t get through via my emails, I’ve put my cell on there too. Just, you know, in case.”

“In case of emergencies, right?” Bucky smirks inwardly. _I see you Steve, I see you_.

“Yeah. Or, like, if you want to talk about the sort of questions you want to ask. I’m pretty open. But there might be some things we could discuss you might not be aware of, tattoo culture and all that. Erm, it’s a big subject, after all.”

“Might take more than one interview,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Might need to brainstorm it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Steve agrees, not quite meeting his eye.

“Maybe over dinner some time?” Bucky suggests.

“I guess, I mean, we could do that.”

Steve blushes so damn pretty.

Bucky is so done. Professionally done.

“I’ll text you,” Bucky promises and grins.

“That’d be good,” Steve smiles back, a little goofy, but still fucking adorable.

“I should probably leave,” Bucky says, noting that it’s gotten real fucking dark outside. “You good to get home?” He asks, which is weird, because Steve’s a grown man and he can make his own way home. But he’s smaller than Bucky and an easier target.

“I live upstairs,” Steve shrugs.

“Oh, that’s really handy,” Bucky says and then runs out of words.

“Yeah,” Steve says into the silence. “So – ”

“I’ll text you,” Bucky says and nods to himself.

Steve nods too. Is this a thing? Are they just going to nod at each other for all eternity.

There is only one course of action: tactical retreat.

Bucky tactically retreats.

It’s not running away.

So what if he breaks into a slight jog.

Jogging isn’t running.

So sue him for getting flustered around a cute boy. He wouldn’t be the first person to do so.

(This seems to be becoming a legitimate problem. Normally, this would warrant a Twitter rant, but Steve might find it. And as much as Bucky hates playing games, revealing all his cards at once sounds _terrible_.)

So – tactical retreat. Re-engage when safe distance away from target.

 _Try not to get your heart stomped on this time, eh, Barnes?_ He thinks to himself.

 _Who said anything about hearts?_ He replies to himself churlishly.

Oh boy.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at transbucky.tumblr.com - I don't know why you'd want to, but you can. 
> 
> Yeah, I doubt this is going to get any more updates. I literally just re-read it and was like, yeah, this isn't totally terrible, so I'm reuploading it, and I'm offering it up to anyone who wants to carry it on, just hmu on tumblr or in the comments here and send me a link, because my dudes, you would be doing me a solid. 
> 
> Anyway. Gonna stop rambling now. Thanks for reading. And no, I don't have a split tongue, but one day I will and it'll be freakin' awesome.


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